The Portland daily press., 1887-12-26
Persons Representee


Which saw the deed whereof we get the scoop?
And ere the high priest Chronos chronicle,
The Sun, which shines for all, must show and tell
That which was done-yea, to be synchronous
With him were hardly less than blame for us,
Since what Times tooth has mumbled is not new I;
And truth, being title, becomes at last untrue,
And lies live in mems minds upon long lease.
Enter cHRoNos AND A TRIBUNE.
cHRoNos.
Reptile contemporary
PHGBUs.
Hold thy peace
Thou simultaneous saurian sleep in slime
And darkness such as Chaos had ere Time
Brought forth the evil Times untimely thence,
type Of stereotyped false evidence.
A ravenous monster, preying upon mems fame.
cHRoNos
And does thelSun no evil with its flame?
Dost thou defame not, is not thy desire
To smite with myriad tongues of flying fire?
Thou strikest with thy strength, and men are
slain;
Yea, with thy rising, Chaos comes again.
The siuger and slayer the lord of shaft and Tyre,
Thou drawest the long bow, or strikest the wire
| And 10, a life is lost and laid to waste
PHGBUS.
These winged words are sharp and out OF TASTE
cHRoNos.
Yet are not tasteess, bitterare they as brine.
TRIBUNE.
Times, be content to turn, and Sun, to shine.
VIII We yet fill the hollow trump of Fame
With names which else were nothing but name
Unnamed Of men or namcless but in scorn?
VIII We yet cause to cry, at night and morn,
Latest editions of the Sun and Times
Fulfilled of mems transgressions and their crimes,
Whose headlines like the headlands of the sea
Beckon with beacons where iniquity
sunken reef lies mid the shoals of life
Will We yet do all this and be at strife?
Nay rise to loftier levels, and ensured
The laurels longer lived Of literature.
Enter MELPoMENE.
MELPoMENE.
Hail thou who holdest in thine hands the Times
And thou OF whom the golden chariot climbs
With tireless tires upon its circling way
Can l sell anything to you to-day?
CHRoNos.
What are your wares9
MELPoME NE.
A little thing of mine;
A tragedy which treats of Lord Locrine,
Whilom theIKing of Britain
cHRoNos
Was he so?
MELPoMENE.
And of the hap whereby that king had woe,
u ca, I1Ou SudL near IueItlu ouCu ltlOulC1
AS sings the voice tumultuous of the seas
When bright brine breaks in pillows, meeting
brine;
A lordly song is this of Lord Locrine.
CHRoNos.
What is the price?
MELPoMENE.
OF priceless goods, the price
Who asks were more than foolish, less than wise;
Foolish for folly OF his thought to deem
Gold brighter than the water OF that stream
Around whose fountainhead the sisters nine
Sit singing, and the freshened laurels CLEAN
With sprinkled spray, whereon the rainbows
beam
With sevenfold color and curve Of dreams divine,
And who shall barter for this song of mine,
Gold, for the payment of my golden dream,
This song and story OF the Lord Locrinei
CHRoNos.
Come, name your figure.
MELPoMENE.
Leaves of laurel there
For Algernon, friend OF the muses. fair,
With myrtle and with passionate rose are woven |;
And when he sings beside us, all the air
Thrills with the strings that Of our goldenhair
To chord his Lutte were tuned Of us and proven
And when of his clear voice the clouds are cloven
With strenuous song, no lesser singers bear
Its fire, but are consumed as in an oven.
CHRoNos
How high does his verse come?
MELPoMENE.
High as mine heart,
Yea. high as hearts OF all who love his art,
Hearken his song, and stay to listen and wonder,
| And sing no more, but break their Tyres apart,
And string from string of their low lutes dspart
| Hearing his voice more strong and great than
thunder,
sweeter than honey, their song breaks asunder,
And no word more Of theirs is bold to start,
And silence binds their lips above and under.
cHRoNos.
| Your price?
MELPoMENE.
One hundred dollars. For no less
| Will rehearse this tale of old distress.
| A monument of grief, monoth
Raised up OF sorrow and of bitterness
| OF men long since forgotten in the stress
or newer griefs Of later men, Herewith
Is made Of Britain's early lord myth,
| That seeing these ancient deeds, men may con
TESS
Their own are weak as reeds whose heart is plth,
cHRoNos.
| Go to, extortionate Muse, will not take
| Thy tragedy.
NELPoMENE.
am sorry for thy sake.
| Ph9bus perchance may buy it.
CHRoNos
But not /.
MELPoMENE.
| Unsay thy foolish words
cHRoNos
win rot buy.
sIELPoMENE.
Thou tina: art mighty as the very Sun,
| Chronos, a lord of Times till Time be done,
| Thine heart is darkened that 1t will not see
That which had made thine high prosperity;
Lot turn from thee and return no more,
Save that my book, like that the Sibyl bore,
For lesser length be paid with higher price.
Alas for thee, that art so little wisel
Thou shalt repent the wrong which thou has done
When have sold my drama to the Sun.
Yea have prophesied, and spoken sooth.
CHRoNos.
Omniyorous, the orient ivory toothl
of Times bites more than 1t can masticate,
press Of matter, yet
MELPoMENE.
i will not walt
To hear thee chatter with perdurable chin.
Thyself of thine own self art taken in
And done for.
PHGBUs.
win buy thy poem.
MELPoMENE.
Thou shnest indeedi
PHRRUs.
Is it a bargain?
MELPoMENE
cHRoNos.
Yet is there space In Times for song divine,
Even as crystal goblet filled of wine
One LIGHT sweet roseleaf makes not overflow,
That on its rosy foam should float and shine.